


The Truth in Paris

by write_away



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, FTM!Enjolras, Gen, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_away/pseuds/write_away
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Enjolras is holding onto the bedpost with white knuckles, his knees braced against the bedframe, his head ducked and hair falling in his eyes. “Tighter, Combeferre,” he orders, then clears his throat. “Please.” This comes out deeper, the pitch lower than what Combeferre is used to from him. He’s been practicing for months, but it still comes as a slight shock. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>They’d arrived in Paris the night before and, tired and covered by night, Enjolras had managed to sneak into their flat with little disguise. He had simply thrown a shirt over his corset and hoped it was loose enough to hide any sort of figure. But daylight was dangerous, so he had enlisted Combeferre’s help in properly dressing.</i></p><p>  <i>Still, Combeferre is hesitant. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, though he fears he may have already. Enjolras’s breathing is shallow, and though the clean cloths they’d cut and sewn into bindings were flexible, they didn’t give that much. </i></p><p>  <i>Enjolras glares over his shoulder. “Do it,” he demands. </i></p><p>For all the obstacles they face, Combeferre doesn't think he and Enjolras have ever had a better idea than to move to Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth in Paris

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! This is a fic I've been sitting on for a while. I was unsure if I should even write it - I am cis and definitely do not want to be offensive. I chose to approach the fic from Combeferre's point of view as opposed to Enjolras's for that reason, and also, I love seeing Enjolras from other eyes. I hope you enjoy!

There is nothing left to do but say goodbye.

All the trunks have been loaded into the carriage, the horses prepped, Combeferre’s bag packed with enough fruit and wine to last them the journey. He stands beside Enjolras and smiles, carefully gauging his friend’s expression as he stares at the mansion he had once called home.

Enjolras hasn’t called it home since the seed of Paris took root in his mind.

“Do you think you’ll miss it?” Combeferre asks and offers his arm. Enjolras takes it without a word, but he grimaces at the motion.

“No,” he says resolutely and sheds his shawl. Combeferre takes it and drapes the fabric over his arm. Enjolras is shaking his head, his curls bouncing around his shoulders. “I don’t think I will.” 

Combeferre nods, as understanding as he can be. He will surely miss his childhood home, and Enjolras’s as well. They had spent many years in the gardens, in the halls, in the trees just outside their properties. “You will still have to write to your family,” he reminds him. “Have you said goodbye to them?”

“No,” Enjolras admits with a sigh. “Maman hasn’t stopped crying in two days. I fear an actual farewell will only cause a flood.” 

“Aurélien,” Combeferre chides under his breath, reveling in the thrill that goes through Enjolras’s blue eyes. He glances around to check that no one is near, then bends in close to whisper in his ear. “You must give her some peace of mind before you reinvent yourself entirely.” 

Enjolras bristles at this and shoves Combeferre away. “I am not reinventing myself. I am being true to myself.” He smiles hopefully. “You’ll help me with that, won’t you?” 

Combeferre nods sagely. He promised his friend he would do anything short of murder. “I am with you regardless of the task,” he swears again just for good measure just as the Enjolras family begins to make their way down the path. 

Madame Enjolras is wiping her bloodshot eyes, allowing Monsieur Enjolras to lead her to the road. Lisette, twelve years old and verging on womanhood, skips ahead of them.

Madame Enjolras sniffs elegantly and presses a kiss to Enjolras’s forehead. “You will find time to write, _ma petite,_ won’t you?” It’s less of a question and more of a demand. Combeferre catches Enjolras wince at the endearment.

“We’ll write whenever we have the chance,” he promises, leaning over Enjolras to brush away the woman’s tears. “Don’t weep. Paris isn’t so far.”

“You’ll come to visit,” Lisette adds hopefully. “And I’ll visit you?”

Enjolras looks unsure. “We’ll always have a bed for you,” he says confidently despite this. He takes his mother’s hand and squeezes it once. “Maman, I’ll be fine. I haven’t been properly home in weeks as it is.”

Combeferre smiles; they’d been living in his parents’ home since the wedding, holed up in the rarely used wing where no one would disturb them, laying out their plans for the city. It’s well-crafted, but neither can say if it will be successful.

“This is quite different and you know it,” Monsieur Enjolras says but it’s without bite. He claps a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder fondly. “I trust you’ll watch after our Giselle.” 

“Surely.” Combeferre sneaks a glance at Enjolras, but he’s busy ignoring his father’s words by murmuring something softly into his sister’s ear. Lisette is nodding along, her blue eyes clear with understanding. “Though I suspect she’ll be watching after me far more often.” He fixes his glasses with his free hand, then taps Enjolras on the shoulder. “You wanted to arrive by nightfall, didn’t you?”

Enjolras stops speaking mid-sentence and turns to him, first glaring at the interruption, then beaming. “I did. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras is holding onto the bedpost with white knuckles, his knees braced against the bedframe, his head ducked and hair falling in his eyes. “Tighter, Combeferre,” he orders, then clears his throat. “Please.” This comes out deeper, the pitch lower than what Combeferre is used to from him. He’s been practicing for months, but it still comes as a slight shock. 

They’d arrived in Paris the night before and, tired and covered by night, Enjolras had managed to sneak into their flat with little disguise. He had simply thrown a shirt over his corset and hoped it was loose enough to hide any sort of figure. But daylight was dangerous, so he had enlisted Combeferre’s help in properly dressing.

Still, Combeferre is hesitant. “I don’t want to _hurt_ you,” he says, though he fears he may have already. Enjolras’s breathing is shallow, and though the clean cloths they’d cut and sewn into bindings were flexible, they didn’t give that much. 

Enjolras glares over his shoulder. “Do it,” he demands.

With a sigh, Combeferre tugs on the fabric again and fastens it at the small of Enjolras’s back. 

“Combeferre, I said tighter,” Enjolras snaps when he steps away.

Combeferre crosses his arms. “And I made it tighter. I don’t want to break your ribs – then we’d have to see a doctor.”

Enjolras leans his forehead against the bedpost, but his knuckles are slowly regaining color. “You’re going to be a doctor,” he points out.

“But I’m not one yet, am I?” Combeferre says and takes Enjolras by the arm, pulling him away from the bed. “Now turn around, let me see if we’ve done a decent job.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and obeys, holding his arms out at his side. “Well? Do I look like a woman?”

Combeferre pushes his glasses up with his thumb and considers his friend. There’s an unmistakable curve of the hips that they hope clothing will cover, but it’s a mild slant to begin with. He gestures for Enjolras to turn sideways. There _is_ a minor bump on his chest, despite all the bindings, but he doesn’t think that someone would notice if they were not to look. Enjolras had never been particularly well-endowed, a fact which they’re both thankful for. Combeferre dreads to think about how tight he would have made the bindings if Enjolras had a larger bosom.

"Put some clothes on, and I think you’ll be more than passable as male,” Combeferre says honestly and tosses a shirt at him. Enjolras pulls it over his head and tucks it into the trousers he had refused to take off even for sleep, grinning from ear to ear.

“I still need a haircut,” he reminds Combeferre, laughing and tugging on his own curls. They fall to the middle of his back, tumbling and golden. “Do we have scissors or shall we go out and purchase some?”

Combeferre crosses the room to Enjolras’s trunk of clothing, shoving aside petticoats and dresses to find the sewing supplies. He grabs the shears and points to a chair. “Sit and I’ll cut it. To your shoulders or shorter?”

Enjolras sits down and gestures to his shoulders, breathing carefully controlled and his back unnaturally stiff, as if he’s hyperaware of his posture. Combeferre is still concerned about the bindings, but remains silent when he sees how elated Enjolras seems to be. There’s a mirror across the room – he keeps glancing into it with unbridled glee like Combeferre has never seen from his friend before.

The haircut is quick and messy, but it is enough to make him presentable. He can easily go out to see a professional without suspicion now. He pats Enjolras’s head once, laughing at the boy’s enthralled expression as he touches the ends of his hair with reverence.

“You are truly the best friend a man could have, Combeferre,” he says somberly, then jumps to his feet, cheeks flushed with excitement. “I need a vest – may I borrow one? And a hat! I just need one until I get settled, until I go out and buy one for myself. Or perhaps two. I think I can afford two. I’ll buy the garment itself, I think, I haven’t got time for sewing now. And it would be strange for me to sew, wouldn’t it?” 

Combeferre places his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder if only to stop him from flying out of the flat undressed. “Calm yourself, Aurélien,” he urges, and points him toward a chest. “I may not be your husband, but I will not leave you uncared for. Go, open it.”

Enjolras shoots him a wary look, his enthusiasm ebbed just slightly as he makes his way toward the ornate box and kneels beside it. He lifts the top with trepidation, then lets out a cheerful whoop.

“Combeferre!” he scolds even as he unfolds a red vest and shoves his arms through the sleeves before diving back into the chest. “This is completely unnecessary, but – _Combeferre_ , did you get me _formalwear?_ ” He wrinkles his nose, finally reaching the bottom. “I hate formalwear.”

Combeferre laughs. “Yes, but I imagine you’ll have use of it eventually.”

Enjolras stands, buttoning the vest with fumbling fingers. “I owe you everything,” he says softly, his voice cracking back to its natural octave at the end. He clears his throat, looking horrified, before continuing. “You are a saint in hiding, I believe.”

Combeferre reaches over to fix the buttons that Enjolras has somehow managed to skew. He resists the urge to tease; after all, Enjolras has dealt with much more difficult clothing his entire life. He’ll get the hang of men’s wear quickly. “It was your sister, actually. I was enlisted to deliver it. She wishes to formally meet her brother soon.”

Enjolras swats Combeferre away and fixes the buttons himself. “Thank you,” he says forcefully. “I don’t think I can bring myself to ever ask another favor of you. You’ve done more than enough for me.”

Combeferre hands him a cravat and allows him to struggle through knotting it before speaking. “I’ve only given you what you deserve – your freedom.”

Enjolras always had a bright smile. When they were children, their mothers would press him to smile just a bit wider, claiming that his scowls brought storms and his grins brought sun.

But that – that was nothing on the smile he gives Combeferre now. This smile, Combeferre thinks, is the sun itself.

 

* * *

 

Combeferre has a moment of panic when he loses sight of Enjolras in the crowd.

Paris is busy and loud and boisterous, especially the college students who swarm around them, many of whom are rowdy and crude with their newfound freedom. Combeferre can hear the way some of them talk now and cringes at the idea of allowing a lady to wander among them without an escort. But, he soothes himself, Enjolras is no lady. He doesn’t look like one anymore, and he’s never acted like one.

He’s hardly comforted. Losing one’s best friend isn’t an enjoyable experience.

There is a shout above the chatter. “Combeferre! Combeferre, you _con_ , over here!”

Combeferre hardly has time to register that this isn’t Enjolras’s voice before a body slams into his.

“Courfeyrac!” he cries in astonishment, recognizing the man first by the absence of a hat and then by his untamed dark curls. He laughs and helps steady the man on his feet. “Courfeyrac, it’s been years.” They’d been close as children, then grown apart as they’d grown older, and eventually Courfeyrac’s family had moved farther away. Neither Enjolras nor Combeferre had kept in touch, though Lisette had always been more than fond of Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac still has the face of a boy, his cheeks round and pink, his eyes sparking with curiosity that always got them both in trouble. He reaches over and straightens Combeferre’s hat without preamble. “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to set that crooked. Overeager to see an old friend. What brings you to Paris?”

“School,” Combeferre answers, only partially honest. He’s still keeping an eye out for Enjolras, wondering how to warn him away from their childhood friend before they make a scene. “Only just registered for my classes. I’m studying medicine. And you?” 

“Law school,” Courfeyrac replies, rolling his eyes. “My father insists, and I suppose it’s good to be informed of the political situation. I enjoy it, at any rate, so it’s no huge chore. But,” he says, waggling his eyebrows in a way that always meant trouble. Combeferre’s mouth goes dry. “I hear you’ve married the elder Mademoiselle Enjolras. Lucky you, I suppose, hm?”

“Ah,” Combeferre says, and then he sees a blur of blond weaving its way through the people. He tries to signal to turn away, but it seems impossible. “Yes. I suppose.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “You suppose? Is she still as wild as when we were children? You were always fond of her, no wonder you became intimate. My mother chastised me for weeks after hearing the news. She thought I should have courted her, though I have no doubt that you’re a far better match for Giselle.”

“Yes. Well.” Combeferre shifts uncomfortably in place, suddenly aware that he is not wearing his wedding ring. It shouldn’t be a thought, as he doesn’t consider himself married at all, but it is a notable absence.

“That’s it!” Courfeyrac claps his hands together, grinning ear to ear. “We must catch up. I’m inviting myself over to see your beautiful wife. You can be there, if you want.”

Combeferre doesn’t see a way of getting out of this, and the blond is getting increasingly closer. “Yes, we shall,” he promises, but makes a mental note to avoid Courfeyrac like the plague. He starts to turn away to escape the conversation. “I really must go, but – _oof_!”

It’s Enjolras who rams into him this time, sending his glasses eschew. “Sorry, sorry,” he says and reaches out to fix them. “There you are, Combeferre, I was looking for you. You left me among imbecilic royalists back there!” he complains, gesturing vaguely in the direction he came from. He doesn’t seem to notice Courfeyrac, but Courfeyrac has certainly noticed him, his mouth hanging slightly agape. “If you do that again, I swear –” 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre interrupts and grabs him by the arm, tugging him to face Courfeyrac properly. “May I introduce you to an old friend of mine? Courfeyrac, Enjolras. Enjolras, Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras pales significantly, but doesn’t miss a beat, instantly holding out his hand. Courfeyrac grasps it firmly and shakes, shutting his jaw with a snap, though his eyes are still comically wide.

“We’ve been acquainted,” Enjolras says unnecessarily, smiling uneasily as he pries his hand free. He opens and shuts his mouth twice, for once at a loss for words. “It is – it’s very good to see you again, Courfeyrac. Unexpected, but – good.” 

Courfeyrac nods mutely, blinking and taking in Enjolras inch by inch. His eyes linger over Enjolras’s chest, then rake down to his legs, and Combeferre leans over to smack his arm. Courfeyrac jumps and blushes sheepishly, as if they were schoolboys again. 

“Right. Right. Good. Unexpected, but certainly good,” he agrees, bobbing his head. “Your face hasn’t changed one bit.”

Enjolras bites his bottom lip but meets Courfeyrac’s gaze with determination. “Nor has yours. And the rest of me?”

Courfeyrac shrugs and some of the tension leaks out of Combeferre’s shoulders. If he was going to make a public scene, he would have already.

“We really should go,” Combeferre says anyway, and realizes he’s still gripping Enjolras’s arm. He lets go hurriedly, but nudges the man’s wrist incessantly. “It’s getting late and we still have unpacking to do.”

Courfeyrac waves the notion away and steps forward, wedging himself between them like he always used to. When they were little, he liked to step on the hems of Enjolras’s dresses and steal Combeferre’s caps when he lost his own. Now, he kicks Combeferre’s boot and snatches Enjolras’s hat off his head. “Never mind that. Let’s go to my flat. I have some fine wine waiting for us, and we clearly need to catch up.”

Combeferre would love to join Courfeyrac, but he doesn’t think it wise to answer before making sure Enjolras is all right with the situation. He glances over Courfeyrac at his friend. 

Enjolras is staring mournfully at his hat atop Courfeyrac’s head, but is otherwise grinning. “That would be wonderful,” he says, hand darting out to take his hat back. He holds it out of Courfeyrac’s reach tauntingly, laughing as they begin to walk, all three in sync. “Combeferre, will you join us?”

Combeferre’s never been able to say no to Enjolras and Courfeyrac combined, even if he had wanted to.

* * *

 

Enjolras won’t come out of his room. 

That in itself is unsurprising to Combeferre, but makes him worry no less. Enjolras was always prone to forgoing meals as a child in lieu of studying, and he hasn’t changed much in that aspect. He’s taken to classes as one might take to a mistress, fawning over each and every text with both love and anger. 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been forced to hide some of their own texts in fear that Enjolras would drown himself in them and never return. 

Generally, Combeferre would allow him his privacy, but summer has made their flat into a hell and he doubts the pitcher of water Enjolras had coveted in the morning lasted all this time. He resolves to check on him just once before Joly, a friend from school, comes to collect him for a night out. 

He knocks on the man’s door once, twice, with no reply.

"Enjolras?" he calls softly, then louder. “Enjolras, may I come in?" 

Even when fully absorbed in his work, Enjolras isn’t the type to leave a friend with no response at all. Combeferre feels a hot coil of dread settle in his stomach as he knocks a third time to no avail. He’s not sure what he’s expecting – dehydration, perhaps, or just a collapse from exhaustion that will inevitably come – but he braces himself for the worst and gently pushes open the door.

Enjolras is sprawled on the floor beside his desk, face down and curls fanning out across his shoulders. His vest is loose and his shirt untucked and pulled away from his body, revealing the tight wrap of bandages that Combeferre doesn’t remember him removing the night before.

 He rushes over and pushes back his panic, aware that shaking hands makes a dismal doctor. Unable to fully still his trembling hands, his rolls Enjolras onto his back and presses a hand against the man’s forehead. His face is dry and hot, burning under Combeferre’s fingers, and his pallor, though pale, has a red flush creeping up from under his collar.

 “Enjolras, wake up!” Combeferre orders, though he know the man can’t hear him. He takes his pulse and sighs in relief, feeling a rapid throb under his jaw. “Please, please, _please_ wake up, Enjolras,” he begs as he fetches a pillow from the bed and shoves it under Enjolras’s head, unwilling to leave Enjolras alone but desperate to get help. A few months of medical school has taught him a lot of theory, but in the face of an emergency, he’s still relatively hopeless.

 “Combeferre, are you in here?” Joly’s voice calls out hesitantly from their front door. Combeferre’s heart lifts hopefully. “I’ve been here for almost ten minutes.”

 “In here!” Combeferre calls out. Joly is older and more experienced in the medical field than he, probably due to one of his close friend’s constant bad luck. Joly likes to regale them with tales of Bossuet’s accidents, interspersed with his own frequent fears of contamination from whatever activity they’re participating in at the time.

 Joly appears at the doorway scarcely a minute later, wrinkling his nose. “Combeferre, you ought to know better than to leave unwashed dishes on the table. Do you know how much bacteria will – _Oh, God, is he all right_?”

 “I’m not sure,” Combeferre admits, moving aside so Joly can reach Enjolras more easily. He doesn’t even need to ask for assistance – Joly simply drops to the ground and reaches toward Enjolras’s wrist to check for a pulse, hold a palm to his head, check for breathing.

 “What are these cloths?” he demands to know and tries to tug them away after pressing an ear to Enjolras’s chest. “His breathing is constricted. And get a thermometer, now.”

 Combeferre reaches out to stop Joly. “No,” he says firmly, holding onto the man’s wrist with as strong a grip as he can, keeping him away from Enjolras’s bindings. Enjolras won’t be charitable to the idea of taking them off with a stranger. “Those stay.”

 Joly narrows his eyes and rips his arm away. “Get a thermometer, Combeferre, and some water while you’re at it, or I cannot help him. And some rags, I need rags.”

 Combeferre frowns, sparing another glance at Enjolras’s pale face, and hurries to obey Joly’s orders. He just hopes that Enjolras will be able to forgive him later.

 By the time he’s refilled the pitcher and located the thermometer, Enjolras has been laid out on the bed, shirtless but for his bindings. Joly shoots him a glare as he enters the room, his hands still picking at the knot near Enjolras’s hip. He’s begun to wrap his own bindings, but always ties them more tightly than Combeferre would wish.

 “About time,” Joly snaps. “Put the thermometer in his mouth, and then wet some rags for his face and chest. I think he has heatstroke.”

 Combeferre considers telling Joly off again, but he can see how shallow Enjolras’s breathing is, so he remains quiet, simply following directions. He places the thermometer carefully under Enjolras’s tongue and dabs at his forehead with the wet cloths as Joly works.

 “Finally,” Joly mutters under his breath when the bindings come loose. He tugs them away methodically with one hand as he cranes his neck to read the thermometer. “His temperature is going far too high,” he notes gravely as he pulls the last of the cloth away. Combeferre’s breath catches. “I may have to – _oh_.”

 Joly’s face goes nearly as pale as Enjolras’s. Enjolras’s chest is splotchy and bruised, red and purple and yellow all down his pale skin. A rash has spread from under his ribs to his waist, painful looking and raised. Combeferre gasps with Joly at the sight. Enjolras had never mentioned being in any sort of pain, and he’d never thought to ask.

 “Who is your friend, again?” Joly asks tentatively, curiosity clearly on the tip of his tongue.

 “My flatmate,” Combeferre says shortly and averts his eyes from the sight. Enjolras won’t appreciate him even acknowledging his breasts, and he doesn’t want to see the damage any more than he has to.

 Joly also looks away, if only to take a second rag and lay it over the injuries. “I was going to suggest finding a legitimate doctor, but I don’t think it would be a wise idea for her.”

 “Him,” Combeferre corrects quietly and rewets the cloth he’s been pressing to Enjolras’s forehead. “Aurelien is as male as you or I.”

 Joly’s lips go white as he presses them together, but he simply nods in reply. “It’s definitely heatstroke,” he confirms, checking the thermometer one more time before removing it from Enjolras’s mouth. He sets it on the desk and draws the curtains. “Probably dehydration, too. She… sorry. He needs to be kept cool.”

 Combeferre resists the urge to pull the sheets over Enjolras’s body, to cover him up. “Will he wake up?”

 Joly sighs. “He should soon.” He picks up Enjolras’s glass from the floor and fills it halfway. “But until then, there’s little we can do.”

 Combeferre sits on the edge of the bed and sighs. "I suppose you’ll have to excuse me cancelling our plans, in that case. I intend to sit vigil until he’s well.”

 “I imagined you would,” Joly says and sits opposite him, one hand curled around the blanket to tug it further away from Enjolras’s body. He’s frowning, not unkindly, only concerned. “He must not wear those cloths in this heat. It’s dangerous.”

 Combeferre is silent as he watches Enjolras’s chest rise and fall shallowly, but steady. “I cannot take that choice from him,” he finally manages to say, shaking his head. “It is his and his alone, and I doubt he will agree to go without. At the very least, he won’t be seen like this.” There’s no need to say what “this” is.

 “I understand,” Joly says, surprisingly, nodding his head. “But I do suggest he wears them just a little looser. There may be rib damage. And – if you could convince him to not wear them while in private, at the very least –”

 “I’ll see what I can do,” Combeferre promises and nods so hard that his glasses slide down his nose. He takes Enjolras’s hand and squeezes once before sliding his fingers down to check for a pulse. It’s reassuringly there.

 “Combeferre?” Joly asks, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes do not remain on Enjolras, but slightly to the left. “I know it is presumptuous to ask – and certainly not my business – but why does he do this? Is it for respect that he may not achieve as… as a woman? Or…”

 Combeferre sighs as he trails off. “We’ve been friends since we were very young,” he says quietly and reaches to brush hair off Enjolras’s forehead. “I used to – I used to be quite a gentleman toward him. Our families thought for sure we’d marry.” He blushes, thinking of the rings they’ve hidden at the bottom of a trunk. “And one day – I don’t remember how old we were - he told me that he felt like he was a boy rather than a girl.”

 “And?” Joly presses.

 Combeferre shrugs. “That was the end of it, actually. It wasn’t until about two years ago that we broached the topic again. His mother was pressuring him to marry and – well. He asked me to help him escape. To become who he really was.” He smiles faintly, remembering the day clearly. They’d been at a ball, escaping into the courtyard for some air and worthwhile discussion, none of which Enjolras had been permitted to participate in while with other company.

 By the time they reentered the ball, the plan had been started.

 Joly nods hesitantly. "I suppose it's not truly your business, and especially not mine,” he says and Enjolras begins to shift and stir. A light sheen of sweat has broken through his dry, feverish skin. “I will keep your secrets, Combeferre, and his as well.”

 “Thank you,” Combeferre whispers. “We appreciate it.”

 Enjolras’s eyes flutter open, then shut again with a groan. Joly lurches toward him, pushing him until he’s sitting upright and Combeferre can press the glass to his lips. Enjolras drinks readily, if sleepily, and they refill the glass three times before anyone speaks.

 “How are you feeling?” Joly asks. He’s touching Enjolras’s forehead with one hand, his other gently at the small of his back to keep him in position. “Does breathing hurt?”

 “No,” Enjolras croaks, then takes a deep breath and winces. “A bit. I – who –”

 “This is my friend, Joly,” Combeferre says quickly, trying to avert disaster. Enjolras’s eyes are bleary, but they turn to fire with an angry gaze. One arm comes up to shield his chest, though out of modesty or shame, Combeferre doesn’t think he’ll ever know. “He’s here to help. He will not tell your secret.”

 Enjolras frowns at Joly, but the other man does not seem to notice. He’s too busy fretting over bruises and rashes, mumbling something about internal bleeding and permanent damage. Combeferre feels his blood go cold – he had no idea this could be so serious – but Joly doesn’t look any more concerned than he usually does, so he tries to settle.

 “Will he be all right?” Combeferre asks.

 Enjolras squirms. “I’m _fine_ ,” he mutters insistently, reaching for the water again. Combeferre hands it to him and watches him drink it.

 Joly nods in affirmation after a moment. “I think he’ll be fine. Monsieur,” he says, addressing Enjolras directly with a slight respectful incline of the head. “As your doctor, I prescribe lots of fluids, rest, and most importantly, a brief reprieve from your, ah…” He glances at the pile of cloths at the foot of the bed. “Extra layer, if you will.”

 Enjolras scowls but nods. “I suppose,” he agrees. “I shall stay in here in case of impromptu visitors until I am able again.” He wrinkles his nose. “You shall bring me some books, won’t you, Combeferre?”

 “Always,” Combeferre promises, breathing a sigh of relief. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this panicked over Enjolras, including the time he fell out of a tree when they were ten. He pulls the blanket over Enjolras, addressing Joly with a questioning look. He nods in approval.

 Enjolras hugs the blanket close and sinks back into his pillows. “Thank you, Combeferre. And – thank you, Joly,” he adds carefully. He bites the corner of his bottom lip before meeting Joly’s eye bravely. “If Combeferre trusts you, then so do I.”

 Joly smiles. “I am happy to hear that. What sort of books do you find interest in? When I’m not drowning in school texts, I tend to find myself studying philosophers and scientists alike. And, of course, I have an appreciation for classics.”

 “Oh?” Enjolras says with true interest. Combeferre has to hold back a laugh as Enjolras’s entire body seems to tilt toward Joly. Intellectual conversation has always been, and will always be, it seems, the way into Enjolras’s heart. “Who is your preference?”

 “I find myself rather drawn to Sophocles.” Joly shrugs. “My mistress finds Homer far more fascinating though, so I can hold my own in a discussion.”

 Combeferre excuses himself to refill the pitcher and returns to find the men in a full-fledged political debate, neither paying mind to any of the previous discomfort. He smiles, simply unable to do anything else in the face of such a wonderful sight.

 

* * *

 

It’s been nearly a year since they set out to Paris together, and yet, it seems like a lifetime. Enjolras stands on a trunk, their makeshift stage for the day, in the center of their flat, his blue eyes keen and icy and fiery all at once as the crowd gathers around him and settles down.

 The settling does not happen quietly, nor quickly. Courfeyrac has begun one of his rambunctious tales from the previous weekend, and it is always better to let him finish than to pout. Joly and Bossuet, a friend in the law school whom Enjolras has also become fond of, sit in the corner while they discuss and dispute a disagreement they had with Musichetta, Joly’s mistress – who also appears to be Bossuet’s, but nobody is truly sure. Feuilly is one of Enjolras’s finds, a working class man whom Enjolras is very nearly smitten with for all the praise he tends to pour his way. He’s exhausted and has found himself at home leaning sleepily against Bahorel, who is often an instigator but kind and gentle at heart. Jehan engages in conversation with both of them, his voice lilting and weaving a poetic sound even as he regales Bahorel with how he punched his neighbor in the face for being rude to a lady. Grantaire, whom Combeferre thinks little of but has somehow wedged himself into nearly everyone else’s hearts, is slumped off to the side, on the floor as all seats are occupied. He drinks, but he is the only one whose full attention is on Enjolras.

“Settle down, everyone!” Enjolras calls, and they obey instantly, voices dying to whispers and then silence, people shifting in seats so they face his head on. Combeferre stands beside him, grinning so hard that his cheeks hurt. He looks bold, sounds brave, and, for the first time, seems entirely comfortable. There is a faint flush of excitement to his cheeks, a buzz of energy radiating from his body.

Combeferre thinks their little flat may be sufficient for now, but it will never contain all their members when the group begins to expand – and he _knows_ it will. Enjolras will make it happen.

 "Attention, everyone,” Enjolras says, and his voice seems to boom, sending chills down Combeferre’s back. “Welcome to the first meeting of l’Amis de l’ABC.” He takes a breath and smiles. “We stand for liberty. We stand for equality. We stand for brotherhood. And we will _not_ stand for a society that does not accept them or us!”

 Combeferre can’t help but think that if anyone can make that a reality, it’s Enjolras. He's true to himself, and he's certainly true to his country.

 Combeferre stands at his side proudly and grins.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) ma petite - my little girl  
> con - idiot  
> 2) Enjolras's first name is courtesy of nothing-rhymes-with-ianto. Go check out his fics!  
> 3) I chatted with some people who have used binders to figure out the scene with Joly. I also spent about an hour researching heat stroke and thermometers. Another hour and a half was dedicated to clothing. Yeah. Anyway, I got some ideas for other fics in this 'verse with that research, but wow, was that tedious...  
> 4) I'm a little bit in love with Lisette. I'm probably going to use her elsewhere. (And yes, the Brick says he's an only son, but Lisette isn't a son! Oh, loopholes...)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is the best!


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